On the Razor's Edge
by Bloody Mary
Summary: A collection of one-shots, set during and before the Great Crusade, focusing on the Primarchs.
1. The Talk

Disclaimer: Warhammer 40 000 and all the characters belong to Games Workshop.

* * *

**The Talk**

Sometimes Luther has to wonder just why everybody looks up to Lion so much. It doesn't happen very often, but has those moments. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"I am not suggesting anything like that," he replies as patiently as he can. He loves Lion like a brother, but right now he feels brotherly exasperation towards him in large quantities. "What I'm telling you, is that you need to…" he pauses awkwardly and looks to the side, "…prove your prowess as a man."

He can tell Lion does not like the idea. Neither does Luther actually.

"Do I need to kill a bigger beast?" Lion snorts.

"Lion…" Luther groans. "Look, I'm not telling you to grab the nearest woman and have your way with her, but could you at least try?"

"Try what?" Lion snaps. "Grabbing the nearest woman and having my way with her?"

"That's not what I meant!" Luther protests, wondering why Lion is being so difficult about this. He's not asking him to do anything particularly abhorrent and usually Lion does listen to his advice. So, why is he suddenly so stubborn?

"Then say what you mean."

He groans. This is not something that is talked about and so he does not know how to talk about it. For a man as skilled with his tongue as Luther it is a disconcerting experience.

"I mean that people think you're… attracted to other men," he forces himself to say.

Lion stiffens and frowns at the suggestion and Luther cannot blame him. He does wish they could have avoided this conversation, but given how important it is for their plans that there is nothing that can threaten Lion's popularity, this talk is necessary.

"I understand it might be… awkward for you," he continues. "But I'm here for you and you can always ask me for advice."

He watches Lions shoulder sag as he speaks, but this is only a passing moment and Luther decides that his friend was just relieved he was not going to be left alone in all of this. It's easy to forget just how little interaction Lion has had with other people.

"I have no idea what to say," Lion finally speaks up. He stares at Luther and the silence slowly becomes awkward. Then he adds: "Thank you for explaining this to me. I've no idea what I'd do without you."

Luther breathes a sigh of relief and slaps Lion's arm in a friendly manner. "You'd be asking 'what did I say?' at the end of every conversation."

"Oh, come now," Lion laughs. "I don't insult that many people and when I do it's almost always intentional."

"Only because I do most of the talking for you," Luther teases.

Lion doesn't reply, merely grins. He nods at Luther, before getting up: they have other things to do then sit and talk after all. For now, Luther doesn't think about their conversation and disagreement. He does not analyze what Lion has said and what he hasn't. He thinks he understands Lion. After all, why would Lion keep secrets from him?

* * *

**AN:**

The idea for this little bit is pretty simple. Some Primarchs, like Lion lived in societies where a real man was not a virgin (and was probably expected to father at least some kids).

I'll be grateful for feedback and any comments or observations you might have.

If I don't get piled up with work, I've already started another one shot, this time focusing on Rogal Dorn and Perturabo.

On a final note, I'm looking for a beta: preferably one with whom I can discuss the plot too, but just helping me with grammar and style will be welcome.


	2. Castles

**Castles**

Perturabo is silent, as he carefully constructs the fortress. He fits the blocks, apparently concentrated solely on this task. He's ignoring the two maids whispering about what happened to "that poor man". They don't worry about him hearing it, after all he's busy and he's a child. Even if he does hear, he won't understand.

This isn't true. He does understand them all too well. It's also from their gossip that he learns how the world works. Without telling him directly, they inform him of the backstabbing in the court. They teach him to distrust everyone. Who can he trust, if nobody tells him anything? He has no idea who he really is: the man who calls himself his father certainly had not sired him nor did the woman that calls herself his mother give birth to him.

They never mention that he isn't their child, as if they hope he won't notice. They lie to him. So, he cannot trust his parents.

He is left alone to gleam the truth from pieces of conversations he overhears and even then he cannot be sure if he really discover it. People lie not only to him, but to each other as well. "That poor man" believed his wife wouldn't poison him and now he is dead, his wife being incarcerated. He remembers them: her always smiling at her husband, nothing showing the falsehood. And yet… he is dead and she apparently poisoned him.

And so the boy learns in silence that he can only trust himself.

* * *

The patriarch of clan Dorn is content. His grandson is a bright boy; grasping things even adults have trouble understanding. He's growing up so quickly. That thought makes the old man frown slightly: the boy is growing suspiciously rapidly. When Rogal should have still been learning how to speak and he was already capable of reading…

At least he will see his grandson grow up into a man. He shakes his head at his thoughts: he is too old to be bringing up a child. Instead of being awed, he worries about growing old.

The object of his musings is not far away, piling snow up into a semblance of a fortress. It's a surprisingly accurate miniature, especially given what it is made of. With an air of finality Rogal slaps some more snow onto one wall, before regarding his work.

The old man cannot help himself. He smiles to himself as he scoops some snow into his hands and makes a ball. The boy is standing with his back turned towards his grandfather, so he does not notice the flying snowball until its too late.

Rogal yelps when the snowball connects. He turns around and glares at his still grinning grandfather. When it fails to produce any effect, the boy makes a snowball of his own.

They don't spend much time like that. Soon enough, the old man has to attend to his duties, but Rogal doesn't seem to mind. He follows his grandfather inside, the snow on their clothes melting as they enter the warm interior.


	3. Size

**AN:** Well, that came out sort of weird. The main idea was that Primarchs are huge and sooner or later, wouldn't fit on a normal sized horse. 

**Size**

Jaghatai groans in dismay, as he, quite literally, looks down on his horse. It is only natural that a youth like him will want to grow up quickly, but having this wish be granted is not always convenient. Fa can no longer carry him to battle: he is simply too big and too heavy to ride on her.

What is a warrior without his steed?

A scant two weeks ago, he rode with the other warriors, leading a raid. Now, he could not do it: he has grown out of his horse. It seems so ridiculous. People grow out of their clothes, but horses?

It wouldn't worry him so much if he weren't so certain he is still growing. Already, he has trouble entering yurts and moving around in them. While not clumsy in the least, there is no day when he does not collide with something or, in one embarrassing case, somebody. The only bright side he can find is that he practically doesn't bruise and hardly ever loses his balance.

He reaches out to pat the animal's chestnut neck. It's a familiar gesture and he smiles. He is still upset that he cannot ride on Fa anymore, but he has an idea. It will take time, but he thinks he will be able to ride a horse again in the future.

After all, he reasons, horses are already bred to enhance certain physical features. Simply adding size and strength to the mix should not pose a problem. It is time that worries him. After all, he needs to essentially create a new breed and that will take decades. Besides, he will be the only one riding those horses: convincing others to the idea will not be easy.

His expression falters and he frowns again. While he is certain he will live long enough to ride on the beasts, he intends to breed, he's also quite certain that somebody will remind him that accidents happen and he could die tomorrow. How can he be sure he'll be alive in forty years? Of course, he knows that it's all nonsense. If nothing has managed to cause him serious harm so far, why should it happen in the future? But he still needs a different counter argument, because somebody will surely grumble that young people always think they're immortal.

That's not as easy to come up with. He busies himself with cleaning his horse as he thinks. Idly, he wonders about the design of the brush and who came up with it, since he has no inspiration regarding his earlier problem.

Then he inspects the legs and cleans the hooves. There seems to be nothing to worry about; he muses that it really is a pity. Fa is a fine horse and since he can't ride on her, she won't see any more fights.

If he were old enough to have a son…

He looks up, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Slowly, he stands up straight and absently pats the horse's side. The problematic counter-argument to his plan of breeding horses returns to his mind, but this time it doesn't seem as troubling.

Children tend to take after their parents. Tall parents have tall children. Since he's huge, he reasons, he will have huge children, who will need large horses. While he isn't really interested in procreation, he thinks that pointing out this will shut up any complaints about his theoretical lifespan.

Satisfied with his reasoning, he heads back to discuss his idea. A warrior needs a good horse, after all.


	4. Monster

**Monster**

For the first time in his life, he is unsure of his actions. Before, he has never doubted himself. A criminal needs to be punished. Those that would follow in his footsteps must be shown their folly. So he kills, and kills brutally. He leaves mutilated bodies, but not so that people would not recognize, who the remains belonged to.

It works too. He sees less and less injustice: it has been months since he last caught somebody harassing another person just because they felt like it. The streets are empty after dark: there is nobody skulking in the dark corners, waiting to ambush others.

He has been satisfied with his achievement, until he overheard a mother scold a child. He has no idea what transgression the little boy has committed, but what matters most to him are the mother's words.

"Behave or the Night Haunter will get you!"

The Night Haunter is what the people started calling him. They don't know who he is and believe he is some sort of monster, and that was fine until now. He doesn't mind being a monster as long as he knows he is doing the right thing.

But is he? A mother has just used him to threaten her child. That is not something he had intended. Yes, he wants to be feared, but only by those that would commit a wrong. A child does not fall into this category, does it?

Still, maybe he is not wrong. He does not just want to stop criminals; he wants to stop the injustice from happening. If the children learn that there is a monster that will punish them and that the monster punishes adults alike, they will know not to harm others. They will know that some things are evil and should not be done.

The Night Haunter nods to himself grimly. He doesn't like being feared, nor does he like being a monster, but he does not resent it either. Nostromo needs to change and only a monster can bring that change. So, for others, he will be a monster.


	5. Writings

**Writings**

Several of the Primarchs had literary inclinations. Fulgrim was quite a talented poet, though he never really invested much in this skill, preferring to concentrate on perfecting his sculptures. Rogal Dorn had written two brutally honest reviews, which to this day serve as an example for many an Imperial critic. Vulkan's letters have avoided being published until the 36th millennium, but once made available to the Imperial scholars, have given them a new perspective on the Primarch.

Out of them all, Roboute Guilliman stands out as the one who has written most. Chief among his works is of course the Codex Astartes, but it is not the only one. Eschewing more frivolous pursuits, the Primarch of the Ultramarines concentrated instead on purely utilitarian literature. He had penned several manuals and guides, many of which are still used by various branches of the Imperial administration and military.

Notable amongst them is the _Educatio Veneris per Stultum_, not only because it retains its usefulness until today and is often used by Commissars of the Imperial Guard when they have to address the issue of safe sexual conduct, but also because it is the only writing of their Primarch that the Ultramarines refuse to talk about. A reason as to why has yet to be determined, although an anonymous Space Wolf had once commented that it's the only book that doesn't read like the writings of "a complete and utter stuck-up asshole." (1)

Another interesting position from Guilliman's list of writings, is the lesser known essay _Sculptura de Macragge_. It's one of his earliest pieces of writing, having been composed before he even became the Consul of Macragge. (...)

From_ Introduction to Imperial Literature_

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Roboute Guilliman was upset. It was not a usual state of mind for him. Generally, he remained content with his life, but not on that day.

It was all his father's fault. What gave him the idea that leaving his only son to take care of his young cousin was a good idea, Roboute would never guess. The girl was three. Well, Roboute was three too, but unlike the girl he could easily pass for an adult. Or maybe he was an adult?

The matter of his age and his maturity was a constant source of confusion for him. He simply had no idea how to think of himself and that just didn't sit well with him. Being around children only made the feeling more acute. Predictably, Roboute did not like children and tried to avoid them when possible.

He gave the little girl a wary look. She, in retaliation, stuck out her tongue.

"Nu-uh," she sing-sung. "You've gotta listen to me, 'cause I'm older."

He really hated doing this, but he was feeling existentially challenged and the girl's argument was so damn irrational; he just couldn't come up with a good retort.

"My birthday is actually the day father found me," he pointed out, trying to sound reasonable. "I'm probably older than you."

"No fair," the child grumbled, pouting and crossing her arms peevishly. "I'm gonna tell mommy you're mean."

He recognized the moment in the child-adult interaction as the one where he needed to resort to bribery to get some peace. Well, perhaps bribery was a harsh word.

"We're going for a walk," he said, picking the girl up.

"I wanna see the ponies," his cousin announced, grinning at him for some mysterious reason.

"You've seen them the last time," Roboute pointed out. On his list of utterly boring and useless things, ponies ranked pretty high. They were only good for children to ride on until they were big enough to ride a horse and riding a horse was damn useless, if you had a vehicle to use instead. "How about we go somewhere new?"

It was cheating a bit, he supposed, but then he wanted to go to the park: he was supposed to write about art for one of his tutors and there was a new sculpture there. But children liked parks, didn't they? So it should turn out alright.

* * *

(1) Interestingly enough, the latest editions have been supplemented with a chapter regarding the Genestealer threat written by Chaplain Ortan Cassius.

(2) Incidentally, most of Guilliman's writings about Macragge are works written for his tutors.

From _Introduction to Imperial Literature_

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**AN:**

Roboute's cousin is another effect of "hm, but they must have had a life outside of being awesome warriors of awesomeness TM".

I'd also like to thank Pixo for beta-reading. :)


	6. Hair

**Hair**

**

* * *

**

There's one thing that Leman Russ, Lion El'Johnson and Sanguinius have in common. They have all at some point dyed their hair. This is where the similarities end.

When Sanguinius dyes his hair, it is because he is grieving. It is not a custom from Baal: no one really knows why the Angel considers black hair an inherent part of mourning. Of course, none of his brothers have asked. Each of them has his own little idiosyncrasies, so why bother Sanguinius for his?

Like most of his Space Marines, Leman Russ has grey hair. It's also precisely the reason why he first dyed his hair blonde, then red. With grey hair, he didn't stand out that much and his pride wouldn't let him accept this. As a leader, he had to be recognizable. Changing the colour of his armor was out of question, so he did the next best thing and dyed his hair.

Unlike the previous two, the Lion does not regularly dye his hair. He did it only once and only because it would be inconvenient not to.

* * *

There are many types of silence. The one that currently surrounds Lion El'Johnson is usually described as icy. It would have been daunting, had he been a normal human; given that he is a Primarch, it's terrifying.

"Could you be so kind and repeat this?" he asks and the hapless diplomat, who had been explaining the customs of the people they will be negotiating with, wishes the Primarch would just yell.

"Your hair can be seen as an insult by them, sir," he barely manages to say.

"Yes?" the Lion drawls, making the diplomat cower.

"As part of their punishment a coward's hair is dyed blonde there," he continues. "If they have to negotiate with blonde leader, they might jump to conclusions."

The Lion takes a strand of his long hair and inspects it in silence. There's a russet undertone to it, but it is undeniably blond. For different human cultures the same colour can denote various things. In some cultures black is the colour of mourning, in others it is white. Therefore, he knows what he should do and why. There is much more to gain by being pragmatic, then by demonstrating disdain for the other culture.

Still, the sheer nonsense of the situation is getting to him. His hair shouldn't matter in diplomatic relations.

With a sigh, he says, "Give me a few hours. I'll do something about my insulting hair."

* * *

**AN:**

This story has been brought to you by various inconsistencies between the descriptions of Primarchs in BL books and their pictures.

Okay, I admit, the part about Leman Russ actually having grey hair is my idea (or to be even more exact that of my brother's). In canon, he's usually portrayed as red-head, but there's at least one picture where he's blond. So, why grey hair? 'cause Space Wolves' hair turns grey once they matured enough. It makes sense for Leman to share this trait.


	7. New

**New**

Fulgrim is an administrator, not a warrior. He feels out of place in his new purple armor. A part of him wonders just how much money went into making it and how he could have used those funds. It's not that he doesn't like it: it's beautiful and it doesn't hamper him at all, but he's just not used to it.

There are many things he isn't used to: that he's no longer Fulgrim the foundling, but Primarch Fulgrim; that people liken him to a Phoenix; that he doesn't have to worry about resources and how to use them efficiently (well, that's not exactly true, he has to admit; Space Marines and the Imperial Army aren't workers in a refinery, but they're still people and ammunition is not, say, crude oil, but the gist is still the same); that people have the time to decorate things like his armor, let alone produce art and most of all that he has a father and brothers.

The last thought makes him smile. He has only known Horus for a few weeks and yet he can't imagine a better brother. The Primarch of the Luna Wolves is what Fulgrim considers the ideal Primarch should be; both a warrior and a politician. Just by watching him, he learns how to become more like he should be.

He knows he has a long way ahead of himself. The mere fact that he feels uncomfortable when presenting himself as a warrior is a testament to that. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and shakes his head; if nothing else, he looks the part.

To think he was unsure about the colours. Of course, he said nothing to his father, but he did tell Horus he's far too pale to wear anything that vivid. People will only see the armor, he had argued. His brother told him not to worry over such things. Nobody would ever manage to create something that would overshadow a Primarch.

Now, he has to agree with Horus. It was silly of him to have doubted his brother: of course Horus knows better. He is the Emperor's favourite and has performed the duties of a Primarch since much longer then Fulgrim.

To tell the truth, he is envious of Horus. Unlike him, Horus is a son to the Emperor in more than just the biological sense. He is not only the Emperor's creation, but a beloved child that had a father for years. Fulgrim can't help but to wish he were in Horus's place.

If it were the case, he wouldn't feel like he doesn't really belong, like he's not really what everyone thinks he is.

He hears the door open and veers around, to face a grinning Horus. Fulgrim isn't sure if he is happy or embarrassed to see him: he has just been thinking about his brother and not all of it has been positive. Some of his uncertainty must show on his face, because Horus's grin falters a bit.

"See? I told you not to worry," he says and his grin returns with full force. "You look very pretty in your new armor."

"You're just jealous mine is nicer than yours," Fulgrim responds almost without thinking. Horus starts to chuckle and Fulgrim joins him.


	8. Walls

**Walls**

Mortarion hates Sanguinius. He never shows it and never tells anyone, but every time he sees the Angel, he wants set those stupid wings of his on fire. It doesn't help that he is quite aware just how irrational his feelings are. Sanguinius never did anything to warrant such enmity from his brother.

When he looks at Sanguinius, he sees perfection. Unlike Fulgrim, he does not chase after it and it is not what he begrudges. It's the ease with which it comes to the Angel. Despite growing up on an irradiated death world, Sanguinius always looks beautiful. He can be splattered with gore and tired from days of fighting, but he will remain graceful and awe-inspiring. Mortarion knows that he looks like he's recovering from a death-threatening illness on his best days.

Mortarion is not a people person. He doesn't like small talk and he tends towards pessimism. People are afraid to strike up a conversation with him. Sanguinius has no such problems. He can merely enter a room and suddenly everybody will adore him. He doesn't even have to bother.

But most of all, he hates Sanguinius, because whenever they are in the same place Sanguinius tries to be nice. He should be able to see that they won't ever be real brothers and yet he offers companionship. It's like he can't see there is and always will be a wall separating them.

* * *

"We'll go this way and flank them," Sanguinius explains, drawing a line on the map with his gauntleted finger. "You have to keep them occupied."

Mortarion looks at the map, his face shadowed by the hood of his grey cloak. He has said roughly three sentences during the whole planning session—Sanguinius has been counting. The Angel feels like he is talking to a wall. Why won't Mortarion respond?

Just as Sanguinius gets ready to add something, his brother nods. The Angel waits, but only silence follows.

It's probably the most awkward situation he has ever found himself in. Sanguinius simply cannot think of what to say to his silent brother. So, he tries what has worked so far and places his hand on Mortarion's shoulder.

"You can tell me if there's something you don't like," he says, smiling encouragingly at his brother.

It fails. Mortarion shrugs his hand off and shakes his head.

"It's a good plan," he says quietly, but somehow it makes Sanguinius feel like a door has been shut in front of his nose. Mortarion stands right next to him, but he could as well be miles away.

* * *

Sanguinius doesn't know Mortarion. Whenever he tries to strike up a conversation, his brother remains silent. When he has talked with him for the first time, it felt like he was talking with air; he could not tell what his brother felt or thought.

He does not like Mortarion; his brother won't let him. He shuts him off and hides in himself, using silence as fortress. He does not dislike Mortation: he does not know him well enough to feel anything like that.

If anything, he feels mildly frustrated with him. They have a background similar enough to share at least a bit of understanding and yet it is not the case. Sanguinius would like to know why, but he is not dying of curiosity.

In the end, he treats Mortarion the same way he would like his brothers to treat him, simply because he hopes that one day it will pay off.


	9. Books

**AN: **I'm sorry this took so long. Christmas is coming and there's just way too much stuff to do.

**Books**

The Warmaster seldom has a moment of peace. The title is but unworn and new to him, but the duties that burden him have all but increased. The paperwork alone occupies a large bulk of his time. He can only hope that soon he will be able to delegate it to his subordinates. What is more, his elevation has not absolved him of his duties as the commander of an Expedition Fleet. The usual complications and issues await his attention.

Nevertheless, he has managed to find a moment, in which he will not have to be the Warmaster. For a while, he can just be Horus. He has sent away his advisors and instructed them not to bother him, unless it's at least a small scale invasion. Now, he stands in his sanctum and tries to chase away the thoughts of obligations.

Shaking his head, he stops in front of his books. Those he keeps in his private sanctuary are merely a drop in the sea of knowledge he has absorbed. They are his most beloved pieces of writing, the ones he enjoys most. All of them are worn from multiple readings. His hand hovers over the tomes, before electing to take the oldest one.

It is not a book the public would expect a Primarch to read, but it is one of Horus's most treasured possessions. While he does concur that he cannot learn anything of value from this tome, he considers it a treasure none the less. It is the very first gift he has received from his father. The memory of the day when he was given it is still fresh in his mind.

He flips the pages casually, as he wanders back to his desk. Once he stops, he leans against the massive piece of furniture, his hand resting on the scarred wood; too engrossed to bother sitting down. He opens the tome and reading the chapter on the Dreadful Sagittary anew.

By now, he knows it practically by heart, but it is of little consequence to him. It is the sign Father has chosen for him and when he reads about it, it feels like he is still with him.


	10. Nature

**Nature**

"Uhm," Magnus makes a sound, his eyes scanning a page of his book. He doesn't even deign his interlocutor with a glance as he adds, "In a moment."

Lorgar sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated beyond what he considers possible. He and his brother were scheduled to discuss strategy, but Magnus simply won't stop reading. Lorgar had attempted to make conversation with him, but it has fallen flat with Magnus going "uhm" and assuring that he would be done in a minute.

It has been half an hour since their meeting was due to start and so far they haven't even gotten as far as establishing the outline of the strategy, let alone come up with an in-depth plan.

"Brother," Lorgar speaks again, the irritation he is feeling bleeding into his voice. "Are you even listening?"

Magnus remains engrossed in his book and merely murmurs a "yes". Then he flips a page and states blandly, "It's really fascinating."

Lorgar has no idea if he means the book or his previous statement. However, he is quite certain Magnus has not heard a word of what he has been trying to communicate to him. For a brief moment, not more than a blink of an eye, Lorgar considers throwing his chair at Magnus. He reassesses his situation almost as soon as the idea has bloomed in his mind. Magnus didn't stop reading the tome even after walking into the table. He would probably ignore a chair as well.

The Urizen sinks into his chair and rests his elbows against the table, burying his face in his hands. Patience is the only option, it seems.

* * *

The conversation is taking too long. What should have been said has been and all that follows is merely regurgitating the same over and over again. Corax does not tolerate logorrhea and what Horus practices can be described only as such.

"Indeed, the very action that I have just described…" Horus says and a muscle under Corax's left eye twitches in a fashion that is reminiscent of many a World Eater just before he starts charging blindly.

Does the Emperor's Favorite believe Corax to be so far beneath his own intellectual level that he has to explicate every single action in minute detail? The tactical display gives enough data for any intelligent un-augmented human being to appraise the situation and draw the appropriate conclusions. Surely, no one would believe a Primarch would have any difficulties?

"The Raven Guard get behind the enemy lines and disrupt their actions," Corax cuts in, unable to bear Horus's jabbering. "The Luna Wolves will attack once the enemy falls into disarray."

"Well, yes," Horus replies, a nearly unnoticeable frown betraying his irritation at being interrupted, "but-"

"That's what counts," Corax states before Horus can launch into another dissertation on nothing. "You talk too much."


	11. Combat

**AN: **Sorry for taking this long.

**Combat**

There is no thought, no reflection as Angron fights. He does not need to consider how to move, where to strike; it's all pure instinct. Other things may be unclear to him (where did he come from? What is he?), but he knows he was bread and born for combat.

Despite his size, he is too fast and too agile for his opponents to hit. They, on the other hand, are never quick enough to dodge. When he fights, it's never even, never fair. It's slaughter.

The audience roars, as another gladiator falls. They crave death, but are too weak to fight. They long for blood, but are too hypocritical to spill it. And so they resort to proxies.

He lives for combat and wishes to fight forever, but not for those pathetic weaklings in stands. A choice. That is what he wants; the freedom to say "It's my fight." A worthy opponent, one that will challenge him.

He grabs the next gladiator and throws him like a ragdoll, right into the remaining two. They fall and the audience calls out.

They want more blood.

He wants to kill, but he cannot kill those he truly hates. In the end, he slays the fallen: his brothers and sisters, because he has no choice. The call of blood is too strong, the anger overpowering.

He needs to kill.

He wants a choice.

* * *

The last thing Alyn Griece sees before she dies is an angel. She knows the invaders call the armored giants angels of death, but she can tell they are not real messengers of Heaven. They are terrifying in their armor that looks like some grotesque parody of the human form. The shoulders are too broad compared to the rest of the body. Some have a hand that is far too large. They all look wrong.

She has seen some without a helmet. Their faces were all wrong too. Some may have called them handsome, but only after one got used to the shape. They are not angels.

On that day, she has been hiding in a half-collapsed building, trying to get one of the "angels" with her rifle. It was as effective as hurling peas at them. She has seen one of them take a shot to his head without the protection of a helmet. He paused momentarily, but shook his head as if it had been a mere snowball and resumed firing his loud weapon.

And then the building collapsed. By some wonder, she has not lost consciousness, but it is of little comfort to her. Her rifle is useless to her now, lying under her. She cannot feel her body down from her neck and it worries her.

It is then that she sees the angel.

He is armored, like the invaders, but instead of blood red, his armor is gold. He looks down upon her with blue eyes that remind her of freezing mountain pools. She marvels at the details she notices: there's a smudge of blood on his cheek and some of it stains his long golden hair. But even so he looks serene and distant, like a true out-worldly being.

She cannot move, but she knows that even if she could, she would not have flinched. The angel poises his spear and thrusts down. Then there is no Alyn Griece any more.


	12. Home

**AN: **Sorry for making you wait so long. I started a full-time job and have a lot less time to write now. Hopefully, you won't need to wait this long for new pieces. :)

* * *

**Home**

The Primarchs were all brought up on worlds with different customs and traditions. Super-human demi-gods created for war or not, they picked up a variety of prejudice and bias as they grew up. This is all obvious. Some of the baggage remained with them through their life, some of it they have shed as they matured. In the process of shedding, most have initiated a chain of change on their worlds of origin.

Consider Baal Secundus and the treatment of women prior to Sanguinius's raise to power and afterwards. The Angel was brought up in a typical patriarchal nomad society. Traditional roles were ascribed to both genders. The separation was rarely contested, as it worked. Necessary jobs were being performed efficiently enough for the society to function.

Had Sanguinius not appeared, the division would continue with only some contesting it occasionally. Their words would sow a seed of change, true, but it would take hundreds of years for them to bear fruit.

However, the Angel had crashed on Baal Secundus. Blessed with a keen mind and a sharp eye, he learned as much through observation as he did through listening to others. It was inevitable that he started comparing what he learned with what he observed.

For example there was Luca and his daughter Aulina. Luca was the blacksmith and Aulina's husband would take over after him. However, Aulina's betrothed had no talent or inclination to become a blacksmith. Nobody really mentioned it, but everybody knew that it was Aulina who was her father's true apprentice.

Situations like these weren't exactly rare. So, why was such a fuss made about pretending they weren't occurring? Logically, it'd be much more effective if people would just concentrate on their job, instead of pretending it was somebody else performing it.

By the time the Emperor arrived on Baal Secundus, the society was well on its way towards gender equality.

* * *

On Chemnos nutrition was scarce. Therefore, food was usually highly processed and consumed either as paste or bars. Taste was not much of a concern, since the precious resources that would be used on creating a flavour could be utilized to produce something much more necessary.

Upon joining the Imperium the diet of the people of Chemnos changed quite drastically. On the on hand it had improved the spirits of the population significantly; on the other hand, it led to an outbreak of many allergies.

However, as much as it troubled him, it does not dissuade Fulgrim from placing himself next to the refreshments and attempting to taste everything. Who knows when he'll have another opportunity? Maybe he'll never get to try any of these?

Ferrus Manus chuckles as he watches. Unlike Fulgrim, he comes from a planet where food with a flavour is not something special, so Fulgrim forgives him.

"This comes from Medusa," he states, indicating a large bowl of salad.

Fulgrim nods, as he adds a sample. He doesn't want to try too much. A primarch he may be, but there is a limit to how much he can eat. Before he has to yield, he intends to savor a significant part of the buffet.

"You know, I expected you to join the dancing," Ferrus says.

Fulgrim looks up, baffled. Then it strikes him that his brother is jesting.

"Please, no one would be as graceful as I am," he retorts grinning.


	13. Distance

**Distance**

* * *

The universe is an unfair and uncaring place. The Lion had learned this lesson over and over and by now the words are part of him as much the memory of the assassination attempt over Sarosh. The universe does not care for one's comfort and can take away all in a blink of an eye.

He knows this and yet cannot help but chafe at the unfairness of it all, when he sees Horus talk to the Emperor. Is he not the Emperor's son too? Is he not the First? Yet, it's Horus who is the Emperor's beloved child.

He watched from the side, as the Emperor places his hand on Horus' shoulder and smiles at him paternal pride clearly visible in his look. Horus smiles back, every inch the perfect son.

"That is a very good strategy Horus," the Emperor speaks warmly. "It will allow us to take the planet with minimal losses and will have a large part of the populace rallying under our banner."

Horus' smile grows wider and brighter at the praise, as he turns to face his father completely. He opens his mouth, ready to say something and then their eyes meet. For a moment, Horus is looking at him from the corner of his eye, then he faces his father again and speaks, "I wouldn't have come up with it without the Lion."

He offers Jonson a smile and the Lion hesitates. For a moment, he wants to reach out and let Horus be his brother. For a moment, he sees a chance not to be alone again… and then he remembers why he needs to keep the distance. Oh, Horus is friendly enough now, when the Emperor has praised him. Now, he can share the glory and appear modest—but will it stay the same if Jonson proves the better?

"I didn't contribute all that much," he says, voice distant. He bows to the Emperor, "I shall prepare for the campaign, Father."

He leaves; not meeting Horus hurt look or the tired eyes of his father.

* * *

**AN: **Sorry for not updating so long. Work and Ripples is taking up most of my time.


	14. Rot

**Rot**

He had lived in the shadow of his father until now. Even after he had escaped, his existence had been defined by the Warlord. He struggled, he defied, but in the end it brought him only pain. He had nearly died in an act of defiance—against his adoptive father and the golden stranger.

He failed. It was a bitter pill to swallow, to know that even he could succumb to weakness. He was not invincible for all his power, his resistance and strength. In the end, he had needed someone stronger. In the end, he could not win on his own. He would have to live on, knowing that he had never come close to truly threatening the Warlord.

Slowly, he exhaled, feeling a burning in his throat and lungs. Even he could breathe too much poison it seemed. Painfully, he swallowed. Even those small actions, meant to chase the dark thoughts away only reinforced his failure. He would not escape it, would he?

"Mortarion?" a mellifluous voice rang behind him. The golden stranger, his true father, was back, it seemed. He didn't turn to face him.

"You have my service," he rasped, noting wearily that he sounded alien to himself. "As I had promised."

"Would you like to talk, my son?" the golden stranger asked.

"No," Mortarion replied. "All has been said."

* * *

Horus' words did not surprise him. Power corrupts. He had seen the end effect, on its throne high in the poisonous mists. His father, the Emperor, turned out to be no different after all. He would cast them away, once he had ascended. It was odd that a being of such intellect would not realize they would notice.

There was only one thing they could do. The cancer that was spreading through the newly born Imperium needed to be burnt out. They would replace the corrupt tyrant at the top. They would save their work. They would cast away the weak that were polluting the Imperium's highest echelons and replace them. The strong should lead the weak—not the other way around.

He did not need to place himself at the throne. It would be enough that Horus would take it. Horus, the brightest star—who was better to take the place of their fallen father? With him, they would not fail. They would not be stopped, powerless to face the tyrant. His past would not repeat itself.

* * *

Pain. Many of the warriors had thought they knew what the word meant. Now they could truly appreciate how wrong they have been. Rotting bodies littered the halls of Endurance and swarms of fat oily flies buzzed everywhere. They crawled over the dead and the still living alike, just like the maggots that bored into infected flesh.

Those that could still resist their agony saw the ghostly skeletal revenant their Primarch had become painfully drag himself through the halls. He leant heavily on his Manreaper for support, as much a shadow of his former self as they had become.

* * *

He had lived in shadows of his fathers. Against two, he had rebelled. Each time, he had thought that he had left the tyrant behind, that he had opened a new chapter of his life and each time, he had found himself following another. The first time, he had been conceited enough to believe he could sever the hydra's head—but then what did he know of that beast back than? He had not met it yet.

The second time, he had merely followed the one who could deliver the final blow. He had believed that his past would not be repeated, but it turned out that belief was not enough. The final blow fell, but the tyrant's legacy refused to die. His father took the brightest star with him and he was left with only the embrace of Nurgle.

One tyrant for another. Was there a point in fighting fate? There was no point in rebelling again. It was easier to just submit. What was there for him to fight for left? Barbarus was ash. Humanity had embraced their tyrant like blind sheep. He would not rebel again—experience taught him it was a doomed effort. Instead, he would follow the tyrant.

He had built a haven for himself: a Barbarus as it had been, with poisonous mists and valleys that could barely support life. Miserable diseased wretches came to try and eke out an existence below his fortress. They offended him. Their weakness, their petty little desire for acceptance galled him to the very core. They still clung to the illusion that they found a loving father in Nurgle, that they had escaped tyranny.

Others could claim to spread the joy and love of finally belonging. Not him. He was not going to be blinded—he was going to give despair and hate. It was all he had left to share. Why should he suffer alone? Why not spread it? Let others feel constant pain, let others curse their fate, powerless to resist it. Let them see that they traded one tyrant for another.

They never came to learn this lesson on their own. He had to send raids to the valleys to drag them to his fortress. In the end, they all found out that there was no escape. A son of tyrants would become a tyrant, and the servants of a monster would seek out another even as they tried to escape.

* * *

**AN:**

A story written for the Read in a Rush competition. The prompt was Anathema's song Judgement.


End file.
